


To Design You a Perfect Love or a Perfect Lust

by misha_collins_butt



Series: Murphamy/Memoramy [5]
Category: The 100
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Arkadia era, Bell doesn't ask to kiss him but it's fine, Bonding, Fast Paced Slow Burn, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Major Injury, Smut, Snogging, because I swear I never forget lube, but too lazy to fix it so here we are, cause yall know I'm a sucker for season 2, dub con, i forgot it this time, i really think I was just out of it when I wrote the sex part, if you know what i mean, physical rehab, so ashamed of myself, so much snogging, tragic lack of lube, uhhhh what else, wink wink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:20:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22730884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misha_collins_butt/pseuds/misha_collins_butt
Summary: They'd been sent out of Arkadia by the counsel to scout locations for scavenging, since they couldn't live off the supplies in Mount Weather forever. That's when everything went wrong.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/John Murphy, John Murphy/Bellamy Blake, Murphamy
Series: Murphamy/Memoramy [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1599514
Comments: 9
Kudos: 110





	1. Somebody Hears You

**Author's Note:**

> Work and chapter titles from Hymn of Axciom by Vienna Teng which, in my mind, is very much a sad Murphamy song.
> 
> Also, I know the word count between chapters is wildly uneven, but I was trying not to make the second chapter too short and ended up overcompensating, please don't yell at me.

Bellamy coughed again, wracking his body with tremours, and Murphy recoiled from carefully tweezing the gravel out of his mangled leg, scowling.

"What, embedding it in your skin wasn't good enough? Had to breathe some in, too?" He sniped, leaning back in and shaking his head. Bellamy just gave him a derisive grunt in return. Murphy picked out the last few microscopic pebbles from where they'd implanted themselves in Bell's bloodied shin. The flesh there was scraped raw, but the snapped bone hadn't punctured through, so that was at least one lucky thing about this whole mess. He traded the makeshift tweezers for a cotton pad that he soaked in peroxide, and grumbled, "You just  _ had _ to be a hero again, didn't you? Can't keep putting yourself in danger like this to protect people. Not worth it."

"You're worth it," Bellamy retorted grumpily, referencing the incident not two hours ago that had caused his injury. 

They'd been sent out of Arkadia by the counsel to scout locations for scavenging, since they couldn't live off the supplies in Mount Weather forever. It was just Bell, Murphy, and Miller, only two of whom were trusted with guns, which was fucking ironic considering Bell had been the one who shot Thelonius, but whatever. Murphy guessed they were confident enough in his skills with sharp objects. Admittedly, he had been doing impressively well in spear-throwing and archery in terms of Grounder training. And, yeah, two semi-automatics in the hands of professionally trained men would be deadly to almost any living thing. Unfortunately, Murphy wasn't so sure Reapers could be considered living things. Because also unfortunately, bullets really didn't do much in the way of stopping them when they were charging at you full speed.

They should've known. If regular Grounders could take five non-fatal bullets and keep swinging until it was over, then sure as hell Reapers should have no problem getting pumped full of lead.

Of course it had to be on a cracked and crumbling, barren stretch of pavement that the thing spotted them. And of course, it had to be one that recognised Murphy. How it did, he still wasn't sure, but he knew what recognition looked like, and he'd seen it in that monster's eyes. The way it sprinted to attack Murphy was reminiscent of someone finally exacting revenge.

One thing, however, the creature had not taken into consideration was that Bellamy would risk life and limb to save people he cared about. And today, Murphy discovered he was apparently one of those people. He had accepted his fate almost immediately, entirely not expecting Bellamy to leap in front of him and take the brunt of the inertia. Bell had been knocked out like a bowling pin, flung away to the shoulder of the road where he'd landed with a sickening  _ *crack* _ and then performed a nasty looking skid until his limp body had come to a stop at the line of overgrown weeds; but not before getting off a perfect shot directly to the Reaper's head.

Before Murphy had even been able to react, much less process what had just happened, the movements echoing through his head like a string winding around all his whirring gears and yanking them to a halt, the Reaper had collapsed on its face just inches from Murphy's feet. The exit wound had made him gag, had made him spin away with a hand over his mouth and close eyes to try and block out the image of shattered bits of skull and gore-gunked hair and oozing brain matter and splatters of blood. It hadn't worked, of course. Even now, he was still actively trying to distract himself from the memory with other mindless things, like making sure all the dirt was thoroughly rinsed from Bellamy's scratches. 

It wasn't like he had a problem with blood or anything. As a young teen, he'd often found himself cutting open his skin just out of curiosity, the pure fascination of watching the teardrop-shaped stream of crimson trickle away from where it was meant to be. He was fucked up like that. Of course, he was fucked up like that. That wasn't new information. But he'd always been partial to the slit-your-throat method. Or, smother-you-while-you-sleep. Hell, he'd even been happy to poison some of those morons back at the dropship. But he'd never so much as fired a gun at an actual moving target, much less seen the aftermath of a headshot at close range. He'd had to swallow the bile that had risen, had had to take a few stabilising breaths before he could open his eyes.

But then he'd been distracted from it for a while by Miller calling to him that Bellamy was breathing, and Murphy had snapped his head up, remembering the puppy-haired boy splayed at odd angles on the ground, the one that had stopped the Reaper from tearing Murphy apart.

He'd rushed over to see the damage and was relieved to find nothing worse than a fractured fibula and an unconscious Bellamy. He'd be dealing with some scuff marks and bruises later, but that was nothing compared to the damage he could've taken.

They'd had to abandon the mission at that point - no way were they going to leave him there like that - and carry Bellamy back to camp, cautious so as not to further the destruction of his leg.

Miller had been dragged off somewhere right away by the guard, which had left Murphy to droop over Bellamy's unmoving form in the medical wing, waiting on Abby or Jackson or someone to come to his aid. Unfortunately, there were still a lot of people needing attention in the residuals of the Mount Weather fiasco, so it was pretty busy in the medical wing, and since Bellamy was passed out and his injuries non-life-threatening, he wasn't really a priority.

So, politely as could be, Murphy had sought out a doctor and asked if he could just clean Bellamy up himself, maybe borrow a few supplies and cart the older man off to his room for privacy or something, and the doctor, being rushed, had just nodded and told him fine, as long as he knew how to do it properly.

Murphy was no nurse, but he knew a thing or two about first aid. After the year they'd had, who of them  _ didn't _ ?

Bellamy had woken up just as Murphy was sitting down beside Bell's bed to start cleaning the wound, and had seemed immeasurably happy to see Murphy was still alive.

Alive, yes...and pissed.

Which was why he shot a withering glare at Bellamy as he discarded of the blood-and-dirt-covered cotton pad and poignantly remarked, "No, I'm not, Bell." He returned his attention to the tray of medical shit he'd grabbed at random but continued muttering, "I'm not even worth the thought. Can't keep martyring yourself like this. Gonna kill you someday."

"Aren't you the one who said, 'We're all dead anyway'?" Bellamy quipped, arms crossed like a tantrum-laden toddler. "I very specifically recall you being all cynical about the end of the world and the plight of humanity."

Instead of humouring Bellamy's (true) argument, Murphy simply lifted his head to lock eyes with the other man and proclaimed, "You realise this means you'll be off your feet for the next six months, at  _ least _ , right? That you're out of commission until you can walk again? Because that's not an optional part of this, Bell. You screwed yourself over to save me, and for what?"

"What the fuck are you so mad at me for, huh?" Bellamy spit mordantly, red-tinged, venom-laced teeth. "What does it matter to you that I could've died? Last I checked, John, you seemed pretty okay with gettin' rid of me."

Murphy scoffed, though he knew Bellamy made a good point. He'd been the one to string Bellamy up in retaliation for the false accusations against himself and the subsequent attempted execution.

"Shit changes," he harshed back, standing to put the makeshift bite-block in Bellamy's mouth; a pretty solid roll of gauze that didn't give too much when Murphy squeezed it with all his strength. "Get used to it--open." When Bellamy just sat there like a pouty child, Murphy dramatically rolled his eyes and grabbed the older man's lower jaw, wrenching it open and stuffing the wad of dressing in his mouth, blocking the noise of protest that tried to escape. "Unless you want to bite your tongue off when I set your leg, I suggest not spitting that out," Murphy groused, watching Bellamy's eyes widen from the edge of his vision, and then Bellamy's body relax as he sat back from his bid to drop the guard out of his mouth.

When Murphy laid his hand just above the break, jostling it a bit, Bellamy cried out and threw his head back, eyes screwed shut.

Murphy grimaced and hissed, "Sorry! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, just..." he gripped the back of Bellamy's calf, near the ankle, and warned, "Count of three, okay?" At Bellamy's fervent nod, he began counting, "One--" and didn't make it to three. At the same time that he said two, he yanked the crooked bone back into place, for which he received a well-warranted yelp of pain. He didn't remove his hands again until Bell caught his breath and scrunched up his face in a snarl, and if looks could kill, Murphy would've been on the floor. Instead, he rolled his eyes once more and announced, "I am not apologising for fixing your stupid leg. Maybe next time, don't break it in the first place, you drama queen."

He didn't know why he was being so mean. He didn't have to be. In fact, he was actually grateful for what Bellamy had done. But he couldn't get past the fact that, well...it was  _ Bellamy _ .

Bellamy hacked the gauze up out of his mouth and huffed, but said nothing, leaving Murphy to open the packaging for the wrap-cast. It was nothing like the chunky, layered boots that people wore before the bombs. It was just a plain blue roll of tougher-than-steel material that stuck on with a built-in adhesive, but it worked better than anything past humans could've dreamt of. Once it was on, it was like concrete around the padded tube that was slipped onto the area so the adhesive wouldn't irritate the skin.

"Why are you doing this for me?" The question came softly from above, making Murphy's head swivel like a wind-up toy. He trained baffled eyes on Bellamy's solemn face, where brown did not rise to meet his blue-grey. "I mean, you could've just left me in medical."

Murphy surveyed the geography of Bellamy's features, trying to parse out what he was meant to say to that, and eventually settling on, "Yeah, well...consider us even." What? Why did he always have to do that? That was so not what this was about. Which, truthfully, was even stranger, since usually that  _ was _ what it was about - getting even. Murphy had always believed that the universe was just a system of cause-and-effects, a perpetual motion thread of events that were each balanced out as they arose. It was the natural state of the world. Science said so. But somehow, with this, it didn't feel so relevant. "You saved my life. So...I'm sticking around until you can manage to do everything for yourself again."

In the corner of his eye, Bellamy's head finally came up, and he seemed a little stunned by the notification of Murphy's gratitude.

"Okay," whispered Bellamy as he watched Murphy cut the end of the cast tape he'd wrapped around Bell's leg and replace the roll on the tray.

"Why'd you do it, anyway?" Murphy blurted out, smoothing down the non-existent creases of the cast. He didn't want to see Bellamy's reaction, didn't want to see the disgust in his eyes when he sneered and told Murphy it was a mistake, he'd meant to save Miller, had though the other boy was the one in danger, would never have sacrificed his own safety if he'd known it was Murphy.

Instead, he was met with a whisper, "You didn't let go."

Brows sinking low, Murphy switched his eyes up to question, "What?"

Bellamy held his gaze and clarified, "On the cliff, when I went down to save that girl. You could've let go, let us...let us die. But you didn't. You pulled us up. You saved us both."

Shock rang through Murphy's body like an earthquake. He sat in silence, gawking at Bellamy, mouth hanging open, air vacating his lungs. 

When he finally got a grasp on his sense of reality, he inhaled sharply and blinked away, not ready to relive those petrifying seconds when he was certain he was going to be the cause of  _ another _ tragedy, that he was going to lose  _ another _ person who bothered to give a shit about him. The strength had come out of nowhere, a rush of adrenaline at the realization that if Bellamy died, that was it for him; Murphy would've had no one left. At the time, Bellamy had been the only person who seemed interested in Murphy's well-being. If he lost that, he would really, truly be alone in the world, and he just...he couldn't stomach that.

"I didn't do that for you," he lied through his teeth, protective wall shooting up to shield him from the vulnerability of the topic.

Despite his best efforts, though, Bellamy seemed to see right through it, chuckling, "Right, I forgot. I had all the ammo with me down there. Makes sense. I'll keep that in mind."

If Bellamy was willing to drop it, Murphy pretended he was okay with that. Because secretly, he wanted the validation, wanted to be affirmed that he did the right thing, 'cos he didn't do the right thing very often, and it seemed like a big deal, but he was so immune to goodness that he couldn't tell. Couldn't ever tell if what he did was good, if any move he made was enough to make up for being a burden.

He was tired of being a burden.

\----

Something you learn quickly when you spend every day with a person: it's easy to get sucked into the routine, easy to let yourself get comfortable in domestic monotony.

Had Murphy known, he would never have volunteered himself to be Bellamy's full time caretaker while he healed. Not because it was going poorly, no. But because it was going well, and wellness did not sit right with Murphy. Everything good had an end. All happiness eventually faded. And he was soaring high right now, waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

He hadn't realised what it would be like, to get so close to the guy he'd once tried to strangle to death. Hadn't realised just how much he'd been missing - and not just the parts of Bellamy's personality that he'd skimmed over the first time around. That, he'd missed. But missing something and  _ missing _ something were two different stories, and Murphy missed being this in sync with another person. Missed being able to read someone's body like the cover of a book, missed fond glances and inside jokes and being sneered at by people who thought him obnoxious, missed endless talks with a mug of tea and comfortable pyjamas and stifled snickers, missed having someone who knew everything about him and who shared everything with him. Missed brushing skin with another warm body. No. No, that...he craved. He hadn't been touched in a long time. 

And it wasn't, like, sexual or anything. Touch was never inherently sexual for him. As a child, before his dad was stolen from him, he'd been nicknamed 'Snugglebug', and his parents had been happy to let him cling to them, had hugged him and kissed his forehead and cuddled up to him at night. Once his dad was gone, though, and his mom drowned in the fog of drug abuse and alcoholism, he'd been hard pressed to find that touch anywhere else. There wasn't a single alternative that could stand in for being loved that way - not vandalism or mischief or theft or sex or weed or twisting his cellmate's head backward and landing himself in solitary for the rest of his stay in Space Prison. Even violence had become a near-suitable substitute, driving him to start fist fights purely for the brief seconds of being touched. He'd been craving it for years without even knowing.

Until now, when his closest companion wasn't another superficial delinquent who bartered proximity for status, like Mbege and most of his other 'friends' had. He'd known they were using him. Had known that they stuck around because other people were scared of Murphy, and that was an advantage to surviving. He hadn't cared, of course. Would've taken attention in whatever form they were willing to give it.

This was not that. This was authentic camaraderie, with common interests that didn't include committing felonies for the hell of it. And it made him realize how deprived he'd been of physical touch, of the sensation of being held just to show compassion. And he was willing to do anything to get that back.

But it wasn't as simple as that. Of course. It never was. He couldn't just ask Bellamy to hug him, out of the blue. It seemed rude, somehow. Like...like he didn't have the right to ask anything of Bellamy, because Murphy had caused him pain. And usually that was never a problem, usually he couldn't care less if he'd hurt someone and then needed something from them. Albeit,  _ usually _ , needing something from them was the reason he hurt them in the first place. But this wasn't water, or food, or supplies of any kind, and it wasn't a pursuit to rid himself of blame or someone who was holding him back or someone who had crossed him on the wrong day.

This was...well, he wasn't sure what it was. He'd never wanted to hug any of his friends before, but, again, that was mostly circumstantial. Still, this felt different. Felt like a trap, somehow. And it put him on edge.

By month three, when they were in the training room every day for the sitting down part of Bellamy's rehabilitation, Bell was starting to take notice.

On the way back from an advantageous day of Bellamy taking his first assisted steps (well, more like staggering jumps) down the length of the walkway with the metal bars he had to hold himself up with, as Murphy was hopping off the back of the wheelchair that he basically skated down the hallways until they approached Bell's room, Bellamy asked very suddenly, "Are you okay?" And when Murphy just stumbled to a halt outside Bellamy's door, and stared in confusion, Bellamy pursed his lips outward and repeated, more firmly, " _ Are _ you okay? Because it seems like something's been bugging you. Like, there's something you're not saying."

Murphy silently opened Bellamy's door and wheeled him inside, kicking it shut behind him. He helped Bellamy onto the bed and folded up the wheelchair, meticulously leaning it against the corner near the entrance. He did all of it without acknowledging Bellamy's query, which he continued to ignore, setting about toeing off his shoes and snatching up the handwritten dinner menu that Miller was kind enough to slide under Bellamy's door every day so Murphy could grab food for the both of them without having to haul Bellamy everywhere.

He ignored the question well, until he drifted past the bed to set a glass of water from the bathroom sink down on the nightstand, and Bellamy grabbed his arm. Murphy's skin felt like it was set ablaze where it connected with Bellamy's palm, and it was amazing, but on instinct, Murphy tensed up and backed away, and Bellamy's hand flew open like he'd gripped the sharp end of a machete.

But Bellamy seemed more surprised than revolted, like Murphy thought he'd be.

"John?" He breathed, hurt flashing across his his face. He was...disappointed? Insulted? Murphy couldn't tell from the tone of his voice or what little he gathered from glimpsing Bellamy's expression. "What's going on? What's wrong?"

Murphy felt nauseous, felt like he should run to the bathroom and regurgitate the contents of his lunch. Anxiety used his heart as a punching bag and his stomach as a trampoline. He felt like he was going to dissolve into the air at any second, get unwoven like a crocheted blanket and then Bellamy would be able to see what a fucking waste of space he was, would be able to see every shade of shame that Murphy carried like scars on his back. 

"Sorry," he managed to choke out, scrubbing his arm with a nervous hand. "I just...habit, I guess. People don't always...have never really had good intentions when they grab me like that."

_ Fucking liar. You're just too chickenshit to admit you want physical intimacy. _

Murphy bit back the urge to lunge forward and just throw his arms around Bellamy's neck.

"Oh," Bellamy sounded guilty now, and it took everything Murphy had in him not to break down begging for forgiveness, for Bellamy's hands to hold him by the shoulders and tell him everything would be okay. "I'm...sorry, I didn't know. Are...are you okay?"

Slowly, like gathering the last dregs of honey from the jar, Murphy closed his eyes and admitted, in a voice no louder than a stir, "No."

There was a beat of silence, like the planet stopped spinning for a second in its ethereal astonishment at the revelation. 

Then, Bellamy was reaching out, palm to the heavens, and a gentle look was settling between the lines on his face. Murphy eyed it warily, like it would bite if he moved too quickly. But after a split second of deliberation, he tenderly slipped his fingers into it and let himself be tugged forward until he was cross-legged on the bed, leg overlapping Bellamy's, with the older man's arms swathed around his middle and exhales tickling his ear.

With a shuddering breath, Murphy was slingshotted from his reverie, and he melted into his friend's embrace, tightening the arms he'd unconsciously looped around Bell's neck and burying his face in the crook of Bell's shoulder.

"Tell me what you need," Bellamy insisted, and it felt so good to be loved again.

Breathlessly, Murphy mumbled, "Just this," and nuzzled into Bellamy's skin like if he could just get close enough, like if he could breathe it in, maybe all the hurt could be undone. "Just...just this."

Bellamy nodded and permitted, "Okay," and abruptly, he was shifting and twisting until he was leaning back against the wall behind his bed, and he had Murphy practically laying on top of him. Er, at least, half on top of him.

Either way, Murphy was suddenly being held the same way he had been as a child and it didn't feel like a big joke anymore, didn't feel like this ride was going to crash at any moment and leave him crushed. It just felt warm. 

And he wondered to himself,  _ Why don't I do this all the time? _


	2. Leave Your Life Open

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey! There's SEX here! Wowee! Who woulda thunk it?!

Bellamy wasn't stupid. An idiot sometimes, but not stupid. He'd seen the way Murphy had been looking at him, like Bellamy was a flower he wasn't allowed to pick.

Well, Bellamy wasn't a flower. And he certainly wasn't stupid.

Which was why he'd hugged Murphy. Why he'd pried at the problem until it'd busted open and its contents had covered him with Murphy's body.

They'd fallen asleep like that. Had been awoken well past sunset by Miller knocking at the door to ask where they'd been, why they'd missed dinner. They'd had to untangle themselves from each other then; somehow, they'd twined their hands together on Bellamy's chest and their legs had become hooked around each other and Murphy had been exhaling heat against Bellamy's neck, and they really looked like they'd just woken up when Murphy went to answer the door. Bellamy was certain Miller had gotten an eyeful of him yawning and stretching on the bed over Murphy's shoulder.

Not that it mattered. It seemed Miller either didn't suspect anything (not that there was anything to suspect), or had his suspicions but wasn't immature enough to start any rumours. Because that had been a week ago, and nobody had said a thing about it even once.

Today was Bellamy's day off; no physical therapy, no low-maintenance security posting in the library that remained mostly abandoned anyway, no busy work assigned by Abby or Kane or anyone else trying to 'keep him moving' while he's incapacitated.

It was just a nice, sunny, relaxing day, Murphy sitting across from him at the little table in the full length window in the hallway outside his room, with some game called Battleship set up between them.

"E-two," Murphy guessed, chewing his bottom lip as he examined his own design.

"Hit," Bellamy mused almost proudly. He was finding out a lot more about Murphy after their little foray into snoozing through meal time together; namely that Murphy was astoundingly good at board games. Bellamy would've loved to have blamed Murphy's ubiquitously astute observation skills - his eyes were always fox-like, sharp, saw every twitch and shuffle and tell - but if Bell was being honest with himself, he'd never been a very talented board game player. When he'd played Chutes and Ladders with O, even when she was just five, she was so prone to winning that eventually Bellamy had given up even trying. "You hear about that bear the hunting team took down today?" He gossiped absently, pushing the peg into the hull of his carrier.

"Not yet. Why?" Murphy was back to chewing his thumb instead of his lip. It wasn't any less adorable, but Bellamy knew he probably should've been discouraging it. Bad habits and all.

"A-nine," Bellamy tried, and watched Murphy smirk, seemingly impressed.

"Hit," Murphy mumbled, tacking a peg in.

Bell was almost too shocked to get out, "It had extra limbs. And heads." Murphy snorted, swirling his finger through his dwindling supply of clear pegs. "And it was white."

"F-two."

"Miss," Bellamy said with mock apology in his voice. Murphy shook his head.

"White fur? This far south? According to who?"

"Jasper," Bellamy replied, a smile creeping through his lips.

"Yeah, right. I'll believe that when he quits being a stoner," Murphy commented, and Bellamy laughed with his whole body, hair falling into his face. "Jesus. Don't tell him I said that."

"Aww, you afraid of getting beat up?" Bellamy teased. "B-nine."

"Hit," Murphy muttered, his dazzlement gone and replaced by his usual grouchy attitude when he didn't get what he wanted. He sat back in his creaky chair and crossed his arms, almost defensively, responding, "Nah, just...it was mean. What I said. Kid's in a bad place right now."

Bellamy shot him a bewildered glance and interrogated, "So? Doesn't make him less of a stoner. I mean, I get that he lost his...girlfriend, or whatever. I know how it is to lose people. But just because I lose someone doesn't mean I suddenly have blonde hair instead of brown. Being a stoner is, like...built into him. It's just a fact. Him being a hot mess doesn't make it insensitive."

Murphy surveyed his lap, then the edge of the table in front of his board, like he was contemplating, before saying, "I know. Just seems like bad sportsmanship to kick someone when they're down. Even if it's...'just a fact'." Murphy did air quotes as he leaned in again and hunched over his layout. 

The somber look was not one that Bellamy expected to see on a face that was customarily pulled into a snarky smirk or resting in unfeeling, flat lines. And Bellamy had always been good at handling unexpected things, especially after his sister came into the picture, but nothing could've prepared him for the way Murphy's eyes looked when they shined with a heavy, restrained sadness.

So, like an idiot - dare he say, stupidly - Bellamy pointed out, "That's never been a problem for you before."

Yeah. Stupidly was the right word.

"Screw you, Bell," Murphy grumbled, though it seemed like he was still trying to hold a torch for his light-hearted demeanour. 

And, again. Stupidly. Bellamy went and ruined it. 

"What? I hurt your feelings or something?" He joked, attempting to bring the mood back up, but the look Murphy stopped to give him could've sliced through whole mountains. Bellamy went ramrod straight, and carefully asked, "Did I hurt your feelings?" because he was actually sort of concerned now.

It was so unlike Murphy to...well, to really have feelings at all. He was usually so well put-together, steady and purposeful. He seemed like a scrambled portrait now, maligned...lost.

"E-three," Murphy whispered, ignoring Bellamy's concern.

But Bell wasn't about to be brushed off like that, especially not by someone who was obviously struggling to keep their cool, and especially not by someone he cared about.

"John," he croaked, trying to catch Murphy's eye. He found that using the younger man's first name, especially all gentle and sweet like that, had this inexorable soothing effect for Murphy. Maybe it was manipulative, Bell wouldn't be the person to ask about that, but he figured it couldn't hurt. Might put Murphy at ease. "Please tell me what's wrong."

"Why do we have to talk about this now?" Murphy near demanded, fiddling with his ships like he might pick them out one by one and chuck them each at Bellamy's idiot face.

"I guess I just don't understand where this is coming from," he explained carefully, but not to be patronising. Just...just trying to get a hold on this situation that was rapidly spinning out of control.

"What, you mean my emotions?" Murphy blinked at him, disgruntled frown. "Well, I'd take a gamble to say they've always been there."

This was where Bellamy finally hefted on the last weight, threw the last stone that cracked the glass. "I just didn't expect something like this from you. I mean, you were always just sort of a robot," and even as he said it, he hated himself for it. Felt like a rotting piece of shit inside a bloated carcass, and maybe that's where he belonged. 

In slow motion, his mistake unfolded in front of him: Murphy stilled altogether, eyes glued to his setup, and it took a moment of pause, but slowly, he started nodding, until he looked up and rasped, "Go float yourself, Blake."

Murphy shoved away from the table, chair screeching on the floor, metal against metal, a discordant sound that matched the special place in Hell that Bellamy just knew was waiting for him. Why did he have to wreck everything good that happened to him? For once, couldn't he have just been a nice friend and let it go? God, he didn't have to be so fucking stubborn all the time.

When Murphy disappeared from his line of sight, Bellamy finally shook himself out of his speechless daze, and tried to push himself out of his chair, calling, "Wait. Wait, Murphy, please. Just. I didn't mean--fuck!" He exclaimed when he put weight on his injured leg, falling back against the wall with a grunt. "Shit damnit fuck," he swore under his breath as he used the wall as a support, no time to set up the wheelchair and give chase, determinedly hobbling along on his good leg. "Murphy. Come on, Murphy, slow down."

But the younger man kept on walking, shoulders squared and neck visibly straining, even at this distance.

Finally reaching his breaking point, Bellamy shouted after him, "Damnit, John, I can't walk that fast!" 

And maybe he sounded more desperate than he meant to, but Murphy finally came to a sizzling halt, back still turned but no longer moving away. 

As Bellamy limped closer, he took the opportunity to try and explain himself, "Look, I'm sorry, okay? I don't...I'm not sure how to be friends with complicated people. I don't know what-what the right thing is to say."

It sounded so fucking stupid coming out of him. He was so fucking stupid. He thought he'd never be the stupid person, but here he was, clambering down a hallway, clinging to the wall, clawing at any semblance of sense he could make out of this.

Just as he was closing in on his friend, Murphy whirled on him, and Bellamy nearly fell backward at the sight of tears streaming down Murphy's cheeks.

Flatly, Murphy spoke up, "That's what you think of me." It wasn't a question. It was a dreadful statement, a stomach-churning finality. "It doesn't matter what you say. It matters what you think." He lowered his eyes, stoic charade crumpling in tandem. "And now I know. And I can stop wasting my time."

"Hey, stop!" Bellamy made a grab for Murphy's arm, missing and tottering forward, just barely catching himself on Murphy's shoulder. Murphy made no move to help him, but he also didn't flinch away. "Just-just wait, okay? I just-" he was out of breath from his crippled romp down the corridor. "I...I don't think you're a robot. I don't know why I said that. I have no excuse, I'm sorry," Bellamy felt the sting along his waterline before he noticed his vision blurring. He was definitely about to cry, and he didn't know how to convey why, exactly, that was. "Please, can you tell me why talking about Jasper upset you? So I can fix it?" Murphy stared blankly at the wall, avoiding even a peek at any part of Bellamy's heaving, slumped form. Defeatedly, one last feeble attempt, he whispered, "Please?"

And he didn't deserve it, didn't do anything to deserve it, hadn't gotten to healing the wounds he'd opened, but Murphy was peering up at him from behind his lashes, eyes shuttered by drapes made of heartache, mouth obviously wanting to form around words he couldn't choke out. Words Bellamy also didn't deserve. Words like  _ 'I forgive you' _ and  _ 'I promise I won't leave' _ and  _ 'I need you to show me you regret it' _ . 

Confessions stuck to the back of Bellamy's drought-suffered throat, where they dawdled and festered, infecting him with a sort of remorse that couldn't be cured without permission. Except his words were more like  _ 'don't leave me' _ and  _ 'I promise I love you' _ and  _ 'let me prove it' _ .

An agonising eternity passed them by before Murphy sidled closer and tightened his arm around Bellamy's waist, supporting his weight so they could dodder back to Bell's room a few feet from where they were standing, leaving their game unfinished.

Murphy was gentle when he lowered Bellamy onto the bed, but still precariously rigid, perching on the edge of the bed as far away from Bellamy as he could get. 

When he finally, finally spoke again, his voice wavered on stilted grief. "When you said being a stoner was just part of who Jasper was, it made me think about...about how I reacted when you...when  _ they _ ...tried to hang me for Wells's death." Murphy picked at the hem of his shirt, then pinched a loose thread from the comforter between his fingers. Bellamy's chest felt tight at the way Murphy corrected himself. He was hurting but he was more concerned with trying not to make Bellamy feel bad for things that were past being changed. "I almost...killed that little girl. I mean, honest to God, actually almost killed her. I came real close." He fell onto his back and clapped his hands over his face. He was muffled, "Jesus, she was just kid, Bell. And I fuckin'...I was so  _ angry _ . I was willing to slit a child's throat."

Bellamy wasn't sure where this was going, but he vividly remembered the night in question when Murphy had taken the girl hostage and threatened to kill her himself if they didn't punish her the same way they punished him. It tasted like bile. 

"And it made me wonder...if that's all you see in me," Murphy whispered, hands coming to rest above his head, rag doll limp. "If I'm just some rampaging psycho killer to you. And if that's how I reacted...and it's built in, it's just a fact...what does that mean for me?" Murphy's tears were flowing freely again, and he didn't try to wipe them away. Didn't try to hide himself. "All I want is to be good. But it's like, no matter what I do, it's never enough. I'll always be the bad guy."

Bellamy was taken aback. Exhausted from his trek. Yet somehow, he found the strength in himself to carefully scale the length of his bed, sit on top of his friend, and plant his hands on either side of Murphy's face.

When the younger man was staring up at him with rapt attention, Bellamy firmly asserted, "You are good." And when Murphy tried to protest, Bellamy spoke over him, "You're more than your mistakes. Okay? And I believe that you are good."

Murphy's argument died at the threshold of his teeth, and, though he quieted, he still didn't seem to want to accept it. Bellamy watched the battle rage on in his misty eyes.

Bellamy knew he would be kicking himself later if he didn't do everything he could now to get it through Murphy's thick skull that the consequences of his childhood weren't what defined him. So, Bellamy...well, he sort of just bowed forward and caught Murphy's lips in his own.

Though he pulled back quickly, rationale saving him from something that could be a lethal mistake, he found a set of wide eyes staring up at him in awe, gleaming silver in the overhead lights. His heart was doing gymnastics, tugging at the wire that connected directly to his brain, which had its alarms blaring. Which alarms they were and what they meant, Bellamy wasn't sure. 

At least, not until Murphy blinked rapidly, seeming to come back into himself after a moment of waking unconsciousness, and cupped his hand around the back of Bellamy's neck. He pulled Bell down but stopped short just before their lips reconnected, a pause on an uncertain breath, the unspoken question clamping down on Bellamy's airway. And Bellamy was the one to answer. Closing the gap, he reattached himself to Murphy, this time lapping slowly, and it was as if their mouths were meant to fit together like this, the perfect-cut puzzle pieces.

When Bell goaded Murphy to open and promptly dipped his tongue in, it elicited a happy sounding hum from the younger man, and if anyone were to ask if Bellamy ghosted a hand up the arm Murphy still had over his head, and if he laced his fingers with Murphy's there, he would deny it. He was not the guy who gave sweet kisses and held hands and listened to love songs. He was the guy who pushed down and roughly bit and left bruises in his wake. But here, with Murphy, he had this unfathomable urge to make himself small and vulnerable and gentle. 

Murphy held him there with a hand combing up and tangling through Bellamy's hair, right at the base of his skull. The kiss was simple, elegant, but the best Bellamy had ever had. Murphy hadn't shaved this morning, had come to Bellamy's room with breakfast and a rat's nest of hair, and told Bellamy he was too tired for such frivolous hygiene practises these days. Now, Bellamy was glad he hadn't; the way Murphy's two-day stubble poked at his own clean-shaven skin was heavenly. It made him want to put his mouth other places, find out how Murphy groomed those spots too, but Bellamy wasn't rushed, didn't feel like he had to do this too quickly. He had all the time in the world to get where he wanted to go.

Just to prove it, when he pulled back, instead of letting Murphy kiss him again, Bellamy dove down to mouth at Murphy's neck, leaving a trail of spit instead of red suction marks. His path was interrupted by the collar of Murphy's tee, but he ignored it, unwound his hand from Murphy's, wedged it between Murphy's still-raised arm and the bed, and cradled it there as he pressed a line of soft kisses up the inside of Murphy's arm. An extra ginger peck for the apex of the bone protruding from Murphy's elbow, pulling the arm down so he could reach. And when Bell made it to the end, he kissed the inside of Murphy's wrist, earning him a tiny gasp before he moved on to do the same to Murphy's palm and then the tip of each finger.

Bellamy replaced his mouth on the front of Murphy's throat, dragging his tongue along the base, up to the underside of the younger man's chin, then over the lower jaw until Bell came to Murphy's ear.

That's where he had to resist nibbling along the edge so he could murmur, "Let me touch you?"

Murphy gave a loose, bobblehead nod and sat up enough to pull his shirt over his head. Bellamy's hands started wandering instantly, mapping out the dents and ridges of Murphy's slim figure, fitting his fingers between the ribs that threatened to burst through Murphy's skin every time he inhaled, scuffing his nails over the pebbled peaks of Murphy's nipples, and all the while, pillaging Murphy's mouth with a persistent tongue and frenzied breaths.

Saccharine whimpers dripped from Murphy's lips as Bellamy swallowed them down, and the younger man seemed increasingly fervid, slowly losing his mind. So Bellamy wasn't expecting it when Murphy abruptly flipped them over so that Bell was on his back with Murphy on top of him, shoving zealous hands beneath Bell's shirt. The fabric came up and over his head before he could even process the movement, and by the time he did, Murphy had already gone back to twirling his tongue around in Bell's mouth like an intricate dance.

Fingers tracing his thigh made Bellamy gasp, allowing Murphy the perfect opportunity to meddle with Bell's sweats, unnoticed. And when he did, the older man unquestioningly lifted his hips as best he could to let Murphy slide them off, careful over the cast (which Bellamy had woken up last month to, covered in childish drawings of crude body parts, a prank he was not thrilled about). 

Murphy placed a kiss on each knee, then hooked his fingers under the waistband of Bellamy's underwear as he leveled his face once more with Bell's.

"Do you trust me?" The question came out of nowhere and smacked Bellamy across the cheek just the same.

He stared back up at Murphy, catching flies with his mouth, and recognised the hope that was sparkling in Murphy's eyes. It was the same one he'd seen when he'd first said aloud that Murphy was his best friend. And then it had been there the night Bellamy had suggested that Murphy stay over, because they had been drinking and the younger man had seemed a bit ragged by the time he decided to go. It was a hope that clung to the wisp of tranquility dangling before them, practically handing itself over to them on a golden platter, and yet neither of them had been so brazen, until now, as to acknowledge it.

"Yes," Bellamy answered, matter-of-fact and firm in his conviction. 

So Murphy nodded and liberated Bellamy of his briefs, before claiming Bell's lips again. The older man heard the metallic snick of Murphy's pants being unbuttoned, and then the clipping sound of the zipper being pulled down. When Murphy shifted around to shuck the rest of his clothes, he didn't once break from Bellamy's mouth, a talent Bell made sure to note for later commentary. 

At the first brush of naked skin together, Bellamy gasped out a hoarse, "Shit," and Murphy's hands flew down to skim over Bell's hips as they momentarily rutted against each other, lengths catching, breaths hitching, their bodies moving ceaselessy of their own volition.

Eventually, Bellamy got enough of a hold on himself to skid to a stop and tightly grip Murphy to his chest.

Like an animal in heat, Bellamy breathed, "Fuck me," against the hinge of Murphy's jaw, and shuddered at the low growl that Murphy replied with.

Wordlessly, Murphy flipped him like a pancake, though he was obviously restraining himself from being too rough, what with Bell's leg and all. As much as he could without searing pain shooting through him, Bellamy pushed his ass up, arching his back prettily, and smirked when he heard Murphy's groan of approval - Bell knew exactly how he looked like this, had been told he was a hotter fuck than any girl by several self-appointed 'straight' men. Murphy, being Murphy, seemed to appreciate it all the more, lithe hand skittering up the long curve of Bellamy's spine.

Then, Murphy was tucking his shoulders under the warp of Bellamy's thighs where they lead flawlessly into his hips, which Murphy went on to cant upwards just a bit more with hands that enduringly held Bellamy up. The same Bellamy who didn't even realise what was happening, what his partner was about to do, until Murphy stuffed his face into the crevice between Bell's cheeks and started purling kitten-soft at Bellamy's entrance.

The older man barked in surprise but quickly settled into the rhythm and pressure that Murphy applied, expert tongue efficiently laving around the furled opening until it was relaxed enough for him to lick inside. Murphy ate him out sweetly, pampering him with slow, lavishing strokes peppered with the teen's intermittent moans, and by the time there was a finger sliding in alongside, Bellamy was already helplessly lost to the clouds.

Mindless ropes of disjointed thought were rambling from Bellamy's throat, a sure sign that he was beyond strung out, and when he got like this, it was damn near impossible to coax him back down to Earth until long after he came.

Somewhere in the incongruous maundering, he must've gotten out a halfway understandable plea because Murphy was substituting his tongue for a second digit and occupying said tongue with occasionally flicking it out to sneak another taste of Bell's stretched rim. Despite Bellamy's senseless, unintelligible mumbling, it still wasn't enough. He still wanted more, wanted to get off on Murphy's dick, which was a thought that hadn't crossed his mind until now, and that plucked away the tie that had been holding him together. By the third finger, he was already unraveling, and the burning pleasure of being opened up was not helping. Of course, just then, Murphy hooked his fingers and purposefully massaged that bundle of nerves inside Bellamy ('oh fuck, just-yeah, shit right there, god-ah!') and he went spiraling, tossed into a dangerous descent of exploding neurons that rapidly depleted any and all basic brain function.

Between the friction of the comforter just barely grazing at the head of his extremity, and Murphy's ruthless compressions against his spot, Bellamy was about to come way too soon. Not that he could complain, just that he wasn't a teenager anymore. He no longer had the gift of a short refractory period, and he wasn't keen on the idea of having to wait that long to come again.

So, with a great effort to organise his jumbled thoughts, he slurred, "John, John, stop, just-fuck, just stop for a second." Murphy's movements stilled and he waited patiently for Bell to pull himself together enough to brokenly relay, "Want you inside. Please."

Swift as a cat, Bellamy was heaved up by Murphy's nimble hands until he was seated in the younger man's lap, back to Murphy's chest.

Crisp against his ear, Bellamy heard Murphy's crystalline praise, "Keep talking. Like hearing you."

Bellamy didn't have time to think about what to say before he was being lifted up, then promptly skewered by Murphy's extraordinary cock, and maybe that was a little dramatic, but fucking hell, how else was Bellamy supposed to describe it? As he sunk down, it scraped past his over-sensitive prostate, and he full-body lurched at the stimulation, head hung back on Murphy's shoulder.

Whatever words were flowing past Bell's lips at this point were purely automatic. He had no more control over what he was saying; though, as they gradually began rocking together, he caught wind of a few of the things that escaped in forceful bursts. Things like  _ 'Jesus fuck-yeah, like that' _ and  _ 'so fucking good' _ and  _ 'oh god, don't stop' _ (even though he was the one bouncing himself on Murphy's dick like no tomorrow). Bellamy reached back and threaded his fingers through Murphy's hair as his climax built around the base of his spine. It must've tipped Murphy off about the impending orgasm because suddenly fingers were snaking around Bellamy's member and pumping him hard and fast. 

He lost his pace then, hips bucking wildly up and down as his lungs stopped working altogether, and just as Bellamy felt himself starting to spill, Murphy whispered against his shoulder, "Come for me, Bell."

Bellamy's entire body convulsed, a strangled moan ripping from his vocal chords, as he launched stripe after thick stripe of white bliss up across his chest and stomach, dripping down Murphy's hand as the stream slowed. A hand that didn't unwrap when Murphy swore quietly, cinched his arm around Bellamy's waist, and started pounding into him, punching a wheeze from Bellamy's raw throat.

He could barely keep himself up, grateful for the strong hold Murphy had on him, but he could finally think clearly enough to start mumbling out encouragement in a skipping voice, "God, fuck, Murphy, don't stop, come on, do it, come inside me, fuck, do it, wanna feel--"

Until Murphy slammed Bell down one final time and pulsed his load deep inside Bellamy's channel, body quaking below the older man.

When both of them had nothing left to give, they collapsed onto the bed in a heap of trembling limbs, breathless and soaked with sweat and cum. Murphy steadied himself and trailed kisses up Bellamy's still-thrumming neck, until their lips collided again, urgency vanished, and scanned his hand down Bellamy's side so it came to rest on his waist. They kissed syrup-slow, intent on clinging to the taste of each other, until Bellamy started to squirm uncomfortably at the feeling of drying semen on his skin.

Murphy loosed a warm chuckle, but left a lingering kiss on Bell's mouth before he rolled off the bed and glided into the bathroom. The sink faucet ran for a second, then Murphy emerged with a washcloth, climbed over the mattress, and wiped away the mess on Bellamy's frontside. He planted soft pecks along the dampened flesh as he went, and Bellamy let him, watching reverently, until he was clean and Murphy was crawling back up and slipping Bellamy's lips between his own again.

A contented sigh hummed from Murphy's chest. He seemed reluctant to let go, like maybe if he stopped touching Bellamy, Murphy would wake up and it would all be over. But it wasn't a dream, and it wasn't a hallucination. Bellamy plunged his hands into Murphy's hair, determined to convince him that it was okay, that he wasn't going to lose Bellamy now, not after all of this.

When they came up for air, Bellamy made the promise aloud, "I'm not leaving. I'm right here. I'm not leaving you."

Though Murphy let out a relieved exhale, a smug smile tilted his lips up and he snidely mused, "Wouldn't get very far if you tried, old man."

Bellamy feigned offence, gaping at the teen and widening his eyes incredulously. "Rude. I'm only twenty-three."

"I don't know, Bell. Most twenty-three year olds don't need some kid to take care of them," Murphy accused, even as he leaned down and slid their mouths together again.

Tightening his arms around Murphy's middle, Bellamy pulled until Murphy was laying on top of him, chest to chest, with their legs weaving together. This time, when they pulled away, Bellamy's face glowed with admiration.

"Not just some kid," he murmured, even though he knew Murphy had just been joking. The next thing that warbled from his mouth was a bit of a shock to both of them. "I love you, you know."

Bellamy tried his best to school his features, but he could tell his eyes betrayed his panic.

Thankfully, brilliantly, before he could recoil from his admittance, Murphy whispered it back, softer than a feather, "I love you, too."

And Bellamy had never been more sure in his life than he was right in that moment.

\----

The day Bellamy got his cast cut off, Murphy snuck a tiny, contraband cake onto Bellamy's dinner plate. It was one that had to be made by hand in the kitchen, the powdered mix for which was hidden away in the store room because it was a frivolous luxury that took too much of the Ark's power to make. So imagine the way Bellamy's eyes ballooned to the size of the sun when he saw it.

Murphy was smiling down at his food when Bellamy twitched up to gawk at him. The older man peeked around the quiet dining area to make sure no one had noticed, and quickly folded the treat into a napkin to take back to his room.

When they returned from the meal, Murphy carefully helping Bellamy along down the hallway toward the bedroom, Bellamy thanked Murphy in little more than a whisper, and bent down to kiss him just outside his door, where anyone could see.

It wasn't like they were trying to keep it a secret, it was just that they were both private people and it seemed unnecessary to be so nonchalant about what they considered a serious relationship. Flings were fine to parade around like trophies, but bragging about what he had with Murphy felt disingenuous. Though, he'd admit, it wasn't unlike them to share a brief peck on the lips in public, even if they usually kept it limited to faint, knowing glances and pinky fingers hooked under the table when they sat next to each other and conspiratorial voices when no one was paying attention, and Bell honestly sort of liked the illusion of sneaking around.

They locked themselves in Bellamy's room and shared the cake, alternating bites and at one point, breaking into a fit of giggles when they  _ Lady and the Tramp _ 'd it.

When it was gone and the sun was submerging itself below the rippling horizon, they curled up together and Murphy kissed Bellamy's leg where the cast had been, and thanked him silently, though not in so many words as Bell had for him.

Murphy thanked him for being a hero, even if he wasn't so eager to let Bellamy be a hero again if the time came. And Murphy thanked him for staying, for every time that Bell ever trusted him, for every time that Bell ever proved to Murphy that he was good, for every time that Bell ever reassured Murphy that he wasn't going to run away.

And when the night waltzed in wearing dark purple lips and puncturing pinpricks in the fabric of the sky, they fell into fitful sleep, safe in each other's arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I survive on kudos and comments, please don't let me die!

**Author's Note:**

> I survive on kudos and comments, please don't let me die!


End file.
